The aforementioned London visit saw me wandering into the Tate Modern on Sunday morning. This Sunday morning in fact as I am currently on a train on the way back to Edinburgh. (Wifi blogging. Very cool.)

There was a big surrealism exhibition which various people had pointed me towards. In addition to this, the gallery was in the grip of full bank holiday festivities with skateboarding displays, a collection of surreal musical performances, various incredibly cheap food stalls and hundreds upon hundreds of beautiful people.

I got into terrible trouble for taking a photo of a picture that caught my fancy. Quite why I - the model citizen - suddenly took it into my head that it was ok to take a photo in a gallery is rather beyond me. I couldn't even blame alcohol as pregnant friend Hope meant that we were abed rather earlier last night than we otherwise might have been. But I wanted to get the artist's name (Ernst) as well as the blurb about his picture as well as the picture itself. Stupid idiot.

Of course the second the camera flashed, an attendant materialised and said 'could I not?'. Understandably. But he was very nice about it. And I have my photo.

But I was interested as he (Ernst) had used a technique - forget what it was called - of laying canvas over rock or other bumpy things and scraping paint over it to give it a rough kind of finish. I wondered if I could persuade someone to recreate that on my back wall.

I saw another painting, another surrealist, didn't take a picture this time and consequently can't remember anything about it. Except that it showed a very beautiful lady sprawled across some kind of sludgy green and brown background with bright red lipstick on her mouth. And I thought how beautiful clothes were in the 30s and 40s and I wondered how many of anything 40s ish we have in our theatre wardrobe. As wouldn't it be lovely if it looked like Cabaret? I'll need to talk to Christelle.